Chapter 4 - The Price of Blood
Julian backed up against the wall, his hands raised high, his body shaking like a leaf in an autumn wind. "Dante! Dante, wait! It’s a setup! Silas forced me! He threatened to kill me if I didn't help him frame the girl!"
Silas Vane, clutching his bleeding shoulder on the floor, spat blood onto the rug. "You lying little rat! It was your idea! You brought her to my plant!"
Dante didn't look at Silas. He walked slowly across the office, his heavy boots crushing shattered glass into the floorboards. He stopped two feet away from Julian.
"Six months, Julian," Dante said, his voice frighteningly gentle. "For six months, I sat across from you at Sunday dinners. I drank wine with you. I asked you if you had any news about her."
"Dante, please!" Julian sobbed, dropping to his knees. "We share the same blood! Our father—"
"Our father died because he trusted snakes like you," Dante interrupted.
Dante reached out, grabbed Julian by the collar of his Italian silk shirt, and lifted him off the floor with one arm, slamming him back against the wall.
"You branded her," Dante whispered, leaning in until his nose was an inch from Julian’s face. "You put a burning iron against the skin of a girl who used to iron your shirts."
"I was trying to make her talk!" Julian wept, tears and sweat pouring down his face. "She had the backup codes! She wouldn't give them up!"
Dante’s eyes filled with a terrifying, absolute clarity. "She didn't give them up because she was protecting me. She suffered for six months in the dark to protect my empire, while my own brother was trying to sell it."
Dante turned his head slightly. "Rocco."
"Boss?"
"Break his legs," Dante said, tossing Julian onto the floor like a sack of laundry. "And bring Silas Vane to the basement at the tower. I have a long night ahead of me."
"No! Dante! No!" Julian shrieked as two heavy-set enforcers grabbed his arms, dragging him out into the fog-filled corridor. "Dante, I'm your brother! You can't do this! I'm a Cavallaro!"
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Dante didn't answer. He walked out onto the balcony overlooking the dark harbor, pulling a fresh cigarette from his silver case, lighting it with a steady hand.
The rain beat down against his face, but for the first time in six months, the ice in his chest had begun to thaw—replaced by a white-hot furnace of vengeance.
